Home For Sale

The contrast, quite frankly, is crushing me. I drove today - the trip taking a few hours rather than most of a day. I enjoyed the rolling hills where the land falls away from the sides of the road gently. It slopes away from the paved surface into fields of corn or small towns selling fuel and food. I left land on Thursday that stood proud and tall by the highways. People blasted through the rocks and the remnants of sharper hills remained.

"I'm coming back," I told myself as I watched those rocks and dramatic slopes disappear in my rearview mirror. "Don't be so sad," I tried to soothe my poor heart. "I'll see Friend again. And all my stuff is still there - I'll be back to get it."

It was comforting to make my way north today. I felt like I was moving toward something - a bit of nervous anticipation rather than heartbroken regret. The more gentle hills and valleys boasted wildflowers in shades of purple and blue and yellow. I smiled involuntarily, pleased by the contrast of the bright green fields against a brilliant blue sky, a red barn standing with friendly charm between the two pools of color. "This is where I live now," I breathed, feeling a little scared, but almost eager to begin my life here.

"This is where I live now?" I asked not more than an hour later, having moved a heavily-laden luggage cart to my temporary home - an efficiency hotel room - for the first time and making my way through the door. My nose wrinkled and I repeated the same two words. "No, no, no." I breathed. "Ew..."

I recalled with a huge wave a longing that I'd left behind mounds of pillows in plastic bags. They hadn't fit in the car, but I needed them. I kept my nose wrinkled as I viewed the two pillows hiding under the old burgundy spread on the squeaky bed I was to use. I had a silky chocolate quilt on my bed, I recalled. Soft blue sheets I could cuddle into with pleasure. A huge expanse of mattress that welcomed my weight as I rolled around and slept and dreamed. I miss my posters, I whimpered, thinking of the shapes and colors amid the silver frames and frowning darkly at a floral watercolor above the too-hard bed. "I'm not impressed with you," I told the artwork firmly, determined to be loyal to my possessions located far south of here.

"I think it looks nice," Mom said when I showed her the picture of the ill-fitting muumuu slipcover.

"It does," I agreed. "Friend managed to force it on the couch and we got cushions to go on top. I rather like it. But you can't really sit on it - the edges come off the floor." I smiled with a memory. "Friend and I were sitting in the living room and I said the loveseat said 'Mine's too big!' and the sofa said 'Mine's too small!' and the ottoman said 'I don't have one at all!'" I laughed for a moment before rubbing my chest. I missed Favorite Friend. I wanted to sit on the corner of my loveseat and glance over to see her in the corner of my couch. To share a thought or ask a question or see if she was hungry too.

There is one bright spot, I decided. I rejected Dad's suggestion that I move hotels with a demand for something nicer. Mom told me to try to unpack and said I'd soon find a new house. I picked up Belle - the computer I'd taken from my office at work - and plugged in the elegant iMac. Somehow the Apple made the corner of the hotel room seem OK - I had access to internet and entertainment, email and blogs. And while it isn't my office with the window overlooking the porch and out into my pretty flowerbeds, it is acceptable. So when I start to panic here in my shabby surroundings, I gaze at the computer on the right side of the bed (the laptop rests near the chair on the left) and my breathing calms a bit. I tell myself that though the lovely piece of technology looks out of place in this room, it's still functional. And so shall I be - successful and efficient and functional. Given that bit of encouragement, I added baskets and bowls to the nightstand on the opposite side of the bed. Books are lined up neatly along the back wall with a box of tissues nearby. The alarm clock I brought from home rests in front of them and I placed a tube of lipgloss next to the device with the glowing numbers.

I still need to shower, having no trust for the bathtub in the room adjoining this one. There are white towels hanging from the rack above the toilet, much stiffer than the purple and green variety I have at home. Or, well, what used to be home. But I do have all my soaps and shampoos, conditioners and lotions. So at least the scents will be right as I stand under the water to lather and rinse.

On a brighter note, I meet with my realtor tomorrow morning. We're going to go see houses I might like to buy, moving a step closer to settling in this place. And while it's in the right region and I've been here before, I realized I've basically passed through. I've visited Industry and returned home, never staying to shop or eat or do much of anything.

"You're OK," I told myself as I was driving through town and feeling terribly out of place. "It's not California - this is going to be home. It's going to be lovely." But it's not going to be blissfully easy. I don't know anyone. I've no idea where to shop or eat or how to get from place to place. I had to call the hotel for directions, though I was within a block of it. I'm lost and alone and not just slightly scared.

It's a good thing blogs are portable. Because writing this - and thinking of reading it in a few months and thinking that I was so worried over nothing - did help calm me a bit. Perhaps I'll shower and read. And think longingly of home - the past and future versions.